


My reasons

by kaffefilter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, Brotherhood, Child Abuse, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Coping, Depression, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:38:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1209643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaffefilter/pseuds/kaffefilter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are reasons you will never know, behind the things I do. And if you ever come to know about them, I hope I'm long dead by then. Because how would I explain? The things I've done to keep us together. To keep my promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first serious longer work, and I have no clue on the quality of it. (Or how to tag all of this properly.) But I had the idea of things that could have happened in their lives, had the wrong/right things happened.  
> Of course it's all my own un-betad thoughts and ramblings, so any comments/ideas are very appreciated. And loved. And cherished. And maybe cried over. A little bit.

_There are reasons you will never know, behind the things I do. And if you ever come to know about them, I hope I'm long dead by then. Because how would I explain? The things I've done to keep us together. To keep my promise._

**Chapter 1**

**Interstate 80 Motel, Nebraska - Summer of 1991**

"Yeah, well, the last time I left you alone, dad almost killed me for letting that shtriga have a go at you. Ain't letting that happen again" Dean answered his brother's question with a shake of his head.

Sam sighed and slipped back down into the motel room's sagging excuse of a sofa. Neither of them had been outside the room in three days, and the urge to move around, breathe air not already used by the other, kept them on edge. The younger boy seemed to resign himself to the fact though, turning the TV back on to the least annoying re-run he could find.

As much as he knew he couldn't just let Sam out to play, even in the park across the street, they were running out of food. Money lay folded in an ash-tray on the table in the kitchenette where their father had left it a week and a half ago. Dean just hadn't found the right time to go. Whenever Sam was asleep he couldn't go, but with Sam awake, there were still weapons hidden throughout the entire room. And how the hell was he supposed to explain that if housekeeping found them? Or what would John say if someone broke in and took them? No, he had to make sure nothing happened until he came back.

Dean let Sam continue watching TV, but shuffled around the room himself, collecting guns and knives from their taped up places under tables and behind doors. If he salted the window and the bed inside the separate bedroom, laid the iron crowbars across the threshold and made sure his brother had both a gun at his side and a knife, then **maybe** he could give himself 5 or 10 minutes to get as much vital things as he could from the gas-station down the street. Worry grew in his chest though, so much could go wrong in just a few seconds. But what would dad say if Sammy starved on his watch? Dean knew he would go on about how much money he left for them, how he was solely responsible for his brother's health when he wasn't there.

Breathing deep with his stomach, he willed the anxiety down. John had taught him how. 'It's what you need to do to push the shock down when you're hurt, son. Make your purpose more important than your pain'. Letting the last doubt about his plan roll off his shoulders, he went to set up the bedroom.

*

Sam protested the further imprisonment, of course. Why was Dean allowed to go outside when he wasn't? With patience and a promise of 'We'll go out tomorrow, Sammy. It's Saturday then and I'm sure there'll be dogs at the park'. A blatant lie, if their dad wasn't back by then, but whatever he had to do to make his brother promise he wouldn't move from the bed. Sam finally settled on the King sized bed, pouting but sufficiently distracted by the idea of the park tomorrow. Dean made sure the salt-line around it was wide enough for a breeze not to blow right through it. Then the window got the same, and one of the crow-bars for good measure. Another line at the door, two crowbars and feeling slightly paranoid he moved the carpet from the front door, to outside the bedroom.  The state of it could probably get them a nasty extra fee if the cleaning-staff found the devils-trap spray-painted on the bottom of it, but rather that than a dead brother.

The thought hitched Dean's breath on the way in. No. Calm down, Sam will be fine. Focus now.

"Stay right here then, okey Sammy? No moving outside the -"

"-outside the salt-line, keep the gun next to me all the time, don't open for anyone, remember the code-words. I'm 8, Dean, I know!"

Reciting the words their father told them every time he left them, Dean felt both proud and disturbed. Sam didn't know how serious it all was, just that they were rules to follow. Only 4 years separated them, but Dean knew a lot more than his brother about what was normal for an 8-year old. School, play-mates and pushing bed-time should be his priorities. Staying alive and knowing how to hold a gun right, surely shouldn't even be close.

With a nod he closed the door. Looking over at the clock on the opposite wall, it read 16.45. He gave himself 15 minutes to make the run. It would have to be enough. Making sure not to break the salt-line before the front-door, he locked it behind him, checked it three times to make sure and took off running down the main-street as fast as his legs allowed him to.

*

 _Cereal, bread, peanut-butter, milk. Cereal, bread, peanut-butter, milk._ Dean repeated the mantra in his head, sure there was enough money for something more substantial than that in his pocket, but those were the things Sammy wanted. And his brother always got first pick. Swinging the door open, Dean didn't even stop to look around for guiding signs to where the groceries he needed were. All gas-stations were pretty much the same; held the same low-quality, overpriced stock. Forgoing a basket, he stocked his arms with the four essentials he'd repeated the few minutes it had taken him to run down here. Browning bananas sat on a discount rack next to the refrigerators, none of the boys were picky about their fruit, so he balanced a bunch on top of the milk-cartons.

Still a good few dollars left. But then again he didn't know how long he needed them to stretch for. Their father hadn't told them exactly when he would be back. 'A few days, tops.' Days slipped by faster on a hunt than sitting still in a motel-room, Dean knew that. John probably just found something big this time and needed some extra time to be thorough. It would be fine.

Scrunching his nose in concentration, he counted in his head what the day-old pie on the counter would get his total up to, but shrugged the urge for the treat off for the sake of two cans of beef-chili and two packets of noodles. That should hold them a couple of days more. Maybe if he asked dad, showed him how good he'd been with keeping Sammy safe this time, they'd go out for pie when he got back. Maybe even let Dean hold that promise to his brother, of a day in the park.

Damn! The time! He glanced a look at the clock above the cash-register: 16.53. Faster, this had to go faster. The man behind the counter raised an eye-brow at him. Maybe at the red flush to his cheeks and hitch in his breath from the run there, or at the things he just tipped on the counter. Dean didn't have time to feel anything about the man's judging looks, his life didn't give him time to wonder what people thought about him.

"That all?"

Dean nodded and started sorting through the notes and coins in his pocket, unsure how much it would leave him with.

"No candy or anything?"

The man tried to push into something he had no say in. Of course Dean couldn't get any candy. Friday night or not. He furrowed his brows and tapped a coin against the edge of the counter.

"No, just this, how much?"

Push of buttons on an old register, Dean felt time rushing past them as slowly every item rang up to a total.

"That'll be 15.21." the man answered as he started bagging the items.

15\. Yeah, that was okay. 15 left them with almost as much to use when this food ran out. He had done good this time. Now he just needed to get back. See that Sammy was fine. Then he could allow himself to calm down. Counting fast, he dropped the exact amount in the man's outstretched hand, taking the bag form him with a mumbled thank you. Turning to dash back out again, stomach fluttering at the thought of doing well so far, the cashiers voice grounded him on the spot.

"I'm just gonna have to throw this out by the end of my shift anyway. I saw you eyeing it, you want it?" Turning, he took a real look at the man for the first time since he entered the gas-station. Probably younger than dad, slightly shorter, no three-day scruff on his chin and his thick blond hair lay slicked back along his head. A thin-fingered hand pointing to the half-circle of pie still in its container.  No one gave you something for nothing. Right?

Dean took a step back towards him, eyed the man, looking for sincerity or signs of a catch. He dared to dart down to the name-tag pinned to his lapel; _My name is_ **Eric**.

"For free?"

Eric shrugged, leaning against the counter now and picking the plastic container up to hand it over.

"Why not? You look way too serious for a boy on a Friday-night. No one with pie can keep up that morose look."

Dean didn't know exactly what he meant. But it was pie. His stomach reacted at the thought of getting to eat it. And it was packaged, the sticker-seal unbroken so it couldn't be drugged or tampered with right?

Eric shook the plastic to urge him on, and he grabbed it with his free hand, crushing it as gently as he could to his chest.

"Ehm. Thanks, Eric."

At the use of his name, the man's face shone up in a relaxed smile and nodded at Dean.

"Any time, man. "

*

Dean ripped the door open as fast as he could when he made it back to the motel. Salt-line unbroken. No people in the room. Good. Everything was quiet except his own ragged breaths fighting to steady his pulse.

"Sammy?"

Still silence. But before he dropped everything and ran for the bedroom, he heard the ruffle of motion from behind the door, and not before long Sam's shaggy-haired head poked out of the room. He had made it. Sam was fine. They had food. Every worry in his stomach settled down, and he felt proud of himself. This time he had done well, dad wouldn't have to come home and yell at him again. They could just be happy to see each other. And he would be able to see that Dean could be trusted. That his job was done well.

Grinning, Dean offered up the treat in his hand to his brother.

"Pie?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Three more days came and went before they heard anything from the outside world again. Bobby called Tuesday morning, checking to see where John were and how they were holding up. Dean knew he was worried, so he tried to sound perfectly fine, exaggerating the amount of fun they were having living on their own. Perhaps he tried a bit too hard, because Bobby huffed on the other end of the phone-line and told him that he was in the neighbourhood and would swing by tomorrow. Dean tried to tell him not to. It always ended the same way if he did. Dad would come back, they would argue, and he would have to deal with Bobby storming off and dad drinking the rest of the evening. No one would care that he'd managed to keep his brother safe, well-fed and alive then. There would be no playing in the park for Sammy. And Dean really had wanted to keep that promise. It was the only way he didn't want to be like dad; he wanted to hold his promises. At least those he made to his brother.

They had tried to ration their food; which meant Dean making sure Sam ate himself full every meal, while he tried to count how much they needed to make it for the remainder of the week if he ate as well. They were still good on cereals and milk. But they needed dinner. But just the thought of the run he had made on Friday made his skin crawl with anxiety. He didn't have the strength to do it today, although he knew he should. Maybe if Bobby came by tomorrow and could spare them a bit of money, like he usually did, they could treat themselves to a delivery-pizza tonight? It was a risk, knowing they weren't supposed to be left alone in a hotel-room at their age, and having people ask questions was taxing.

Dean gave it most of the day to work through his head, weighing pros and cons, until Sam's stomach rumbled where they sat next to each other on the couch. He'd order them pizza.

*

Delivering to a motel obviously wasn't a problem when he'd asked them in his almost perfected impression of his father's voice. But when the knock on the door came, he couldn't help the wave of anxiety that kicked back up.

"One original pepperoni pi - hey, pie-boy."

Dean froze as he realized the face behind the pizza-cap was the same man he had met working the register at the gas-station.

"Uhm, hi. How much is it?"

Eric laughed at the repeat of their conversation from a few days ago.

"So you live in the motel, huh?"

Dean tried to count the money out in his hand and hand it over to the man in the doorway, but he shook his head.

"Yeah, no, keep it. Tell me what you're doing here instead. What are you, 15? Living on your own in a motelroom? That doesn't seem safe."

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Dean wanted to push the man out, close the door, lock it and re-do all the safety-measures just to feel safe again. Eric wasn't being rude, and Dean actually enjoyed seeing a somewhat-familiar face, but the questions he couldn't answer and Sammy on the couch, shifted his focus.

"Yeah, our dad is just out. He'll be back soon."

Eric nodded, but didn't seem persuaded. He handed over the pizza-box though, still holding on to the edge when Dean took it.

"I don't wanna pry, but you shouldn't be left alone like this."

Dean shrugged as best as he could and avoided the other man's eyes. He knew they were brown and comforting, but he didn't need the pity. They were fine. They always were if they followed the rules. And this was pushing it.

"I'll swing by and check on you when my shift's over. Starting the night-shift on the gas-station only a while after that so, got a few minutes over. Enjoy the pizza, dude."

Dean stood confused and unsure in the open doorway a moment, before he locked the door and went to plate the pizza up for his brother. He didn't have to open the door if Eric actually came back. They weren't supposed to open for anyone but dad, anyway.  Somewhere it felt nice though. Having someone check up on you, just because they were concerned.

*

Sammy had fallen asleep against him after the pizza and Dean had had to half-carry him to the bedroom. Himself he didn't seem to have the ability to relax at all. His mind had been racing between dad, Bobby, and what they would say if they knew someone else had gotten close to them. What they would think of Dean for jeopardizing their safety. He was just tired of it though, always having to think 14 steps ahead before saying or doing anything in the presence of other people. It fried his brain sometimes. And he wished dad could just come back so he didn't have to be responsible for it all. He wanted to curl up on the couch like Sammy did sometimes when dad wasn't watching, burying his head in the shoulder of Deans jersey, and just cry silently for a while. It was never about being sad, it was just tension and worry, and being afraid all the time. It took its toll.

A gentle knock on the door brought his attention spiking back up. So Eric did come back. What should he do? Ignore it? But then maybe he'd alert the staff and they would be found out. He could just keep the chain on the door, open it slightly and tell him they were fine. Yeah. They were fine.

*

 "Dean, wake up. What's happened, boy?"

Opening his eyes, Dean felt the urge to vomit rush up from the depths of his gut. Everything spun around him and no matter how he tried to focus on one thing to anchor his gaze on, he failed to settle his stomach. Throwing hands out for something to cling to, he found strong arms ready to support him and direct him right. White porcelain came into view and it seemed to push him right past the edge of nausea. Every wave of vomit tasted of pizza and... beer?

"B-Bobby?"

"Yeah, I'm here, son. Take it easy. " Bobby was there. Which meant it was morning already. What happened to last night? Where was Sam? Had something happened again? Another wave of nausea and panic welled up, but he seemed empty enough to sit back from the toilet-bowl.

"Bobby, Sammy, is he okay? Did I screw up again? I don't know what happened."

"Sam is fine. But I turned up here, finding the damn door wide open, did something attack you?"

Attack them? All he remembered had been watching TV with his brother. Carrying him to bed. Pizza. Someone came by. Someone he remembered. Eric? Had he been some kind of monster? Maybe he'd known who they were. He should have tested him like dad taught him. Damnit.

"No, I think... It's my fault Bobby."

Dean couldn't see the older man's face, as he was currently leaning his head against one of his flannel-clad arms, but his brows were furrowed in annoyance. Not at Dean, but the current situation. Bobby had done a quick assessment when he found the boy out cold on the bathroom floor, but he seemed well enough. Nothing bloody, nothing broken, no bite-marks and he hadn't reacted to the wash of holy water he'd poured over his face to wake him up.

"Let's get you cleaned up and we'll talk. I'll go make Sam some breakfast."

Dean just nodded and let the man he knew almost better than his father, lead him from the toilet to the shower-cabin. Fully feeling how heavy and tired his body felt, he leaned against cold tiles a while before he could manage to undress. Every time he tried to bend either way, muscles protested violently. Sammy was fine. But the memories of last night were scattered in hundreds of places in his brain. And a bunch of pieces seemed to be missing all together. The stale, fuzzy taste of beer in his mouth scared him most. Never had he been allowed to drink, and at no point in his life had he even had an urge to. He had seen too much of Bobby and his father to even see the point. It never made anything better. But making sure John was okay after he had gone on a bender, Dean could recognize the black-outs and the hangover. He knew the splitting headache would take all day to clear up, but he just wanted it gone. Wanted the blur at the edges of his vision to straighten up every time he opened and closed his eyes, but not even rubbing them with the back of his hand did anything to make it go away. None of this felt right.

Dean let his head fall forward, near scolding water crushing against his scalp. So many horrible things could have happened to Sammy. And Bobby was there; had to pick Dean up from unconsciousness, had to make sure they were both alive. It was Dean's job to look after them and he had done so well these past two weeks. Now he had fucked it up, Bobby would get even angrier at dad and none of what he had done right would matter. Dad would be so mad. Furious. He might even belt him this time. Oh god.

He didn't notice he was hyperventilating  before his vision tilted and Dean had to catch himself on the slippery walls of the shower so he wouldn't fall head first into the tile. This wasn't going to end well if he tried to keep standing. So, instead he dropped down on his ass, giving shaking limbs a rest before they stopped working all together.

And sudden fire engulfed him. Pain shot up through his entire back, crashing into his brain and racing back down again. It forced him to lift his ass back up from the tiles to relieve the terrible hurt. Kneeling up and digging fingers into the strained muscles of his thighs. Tears welled up his eyes and the instant scream the pain had pushed up through his throat left sobs in its wake. Every part of his backside kept throbbing dully although the worst of the hurt had edged off. The pain scared him way past the fear of what Bobby would say, finding him like this.

"Bobby!" Dean's voice barely held strong enough to shout to the man for help, but he seemed to have already heard his first yelp, ripping the door open to the bathroom and the shower.

"What's wrong boy?"

Dean kept sobbing, embarrassed by his nakedness, but the craving for comfort won over the furious state of his ego. "I don't know. My... It hurts, Bobby. And I don't know why. Please, it hurts."

Eyes checking him over for the source of his distress grew even more worried when they noticed bruises they hadn't picked up on before, as they had been hidden by his clothes. They traced the child's back and thighs. Ugly, dark blue spots on either side of his hips; a pattern that told him a story he didn't want to believe.

Raspy motel-towels wrapped around his quivering shoulders and Bobby supported him enough to stand up. Another towel wrapped around his waist before Bobby lifted him out of the bathroom, marching straight for the bedroom. As they walked by, between tears Dean could see Sammy sitting at the kitchen table, innocently eating his favourite cereal. Asking questions of what was happening with nothing but his eyes. Dean tried to smile, always needing to reassure his little brother that all was well. No need to worry. It would all be fine.

But nothing felt fine. Dean felt feverish and his body was shaking with memory of the pain wracking through him. Bobby laid him down gently on the bed, pulling the covers up around him, then sat down on the edge of the bed. Neither of them said anything for a while. Bobby's head hung with his chin touching his chest and he clenched his hands into fists in his lap. Relaxing them only when he forced deeper breaths into his chest.

Dean saw it and felt even worse. John clenched his fists like that when he tried to hold his rage back. And sometimes, when he couldn't, he lashed out. Only once though; one punch or slap, and Dean knew he had done something to deserve that.  But he didn't know what he had done this time, he wished he could remember, apologize, and take the slap so it would be over. Minutes went by before Bobby moved again though, and only muttered under his breath that he'd go call John. Dean still couldn't stop the hiccoughing sobs that shook him and cut through the silent room. The door stood left open, and before long Dean could hear unsure taps of naked feet on the floor outside it.

"Sammy?" Saying his brother's name felt like something normal, something to hold in to more than guilt. And the tussle of brown hair that he could see in the doorway, made sense of his confusing thoughts. Sammy was fine. He was here. Dean hadn't let him down although he might have crashed and burned in his father's eyes.

"Dean." Sam's voice was weak and questioning, hovering at the door, asking for silent permission to come in. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Sammy. Everything'll be fine." Dean patted the empty side of the bed and his little brother jumped up next to him, dragging his knees up to his chest and peering over the scuffed knees of his jeans at the bundled form next to him. Sam eventually scooted closer, knowing something wasn't right, but trusting his brother to tell him if he needed to. While the silence between Dean and Bobby had been terrifying, this one felt like a soothing caress. The brothers spent so much time play-fighting, annoying each other, playing pranks at the others expense and yet they both knew where they had the other. Always right there, if they needed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was Dean's first part of the "reasons", Sam's will be next. Any feedback is awesome and pushes me through this writer's block I seem to be in.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned to leave Dean's memory with the last chapter, but with a push from my bf and some comments, this chapter accidentally happened. So, please, tell me if it's any good or if I shouldn't have. I also updated the amount of chapters, as I think I have the story settled now.

**Chapter 3**

Dean kept telling them he didn't know, and he was sure they suspected he was lying through his teeth. Which he was. Sure, some parts were still gone, but he knew enough to puzzle the night back together. But saying it; telling Bobby how hard he had failed, how he had endangered Sam's life so carelessly. No, the terrible details were his to bare as a consequence.

Parts of him wanted to cry it all out, fall into the bed and feel sorry for himself and his pain, but his brain scolded him, in his father's voice, for not following the rules. _'If you'd just did what I told you, none of this would have happened. You're just lucky Sammy wasn't hurt. What would you do if he had been the one in your place? Could anyone ever forgive you for that?'_

John's rules were set for exactly these kind of reasons. Maybe Dean could never have foreseen this to happen, but he had let a monster right on in to do the hurting it wanted. And god did it hurt. But rather him, always rather him, than Sammy. Or dad. Because Sammy was innocent, and dad could make everything all right again. What could he do more than shoulder the pain and let it keep hurting? What was the choice? Letting them know exactly what had happened so they could take part in the blame?

As much as he didn't want to talk about it, he kept replaying memories of tasting a few sips of beer, after Eric had prodded him a couple of times to try it. It tasted weird, bitter on his tongue, but he had never had beer before, how was he to know if it was normal or not. He remembered feeling heavier, arms not working in cooperation anymore, and his head spinning although it rested against the sofa already. Long fingers digging into the flesh on his body, brown eyes not soft anymore, and pain in his arms as they were crushed behind him and he was pushed deeper into the sofa. Slick, beer-smelling lips sliding over his own.

Another wave of nausea rolled up on him, Bobby catching him halfway out from the covers and handing him a nearby waste-basket to be sick in. Not much came up this time, but he kept hulking, stomach still not okay with his brain remembering that particular part.

"It's okay, son" Bobby's soothing voice and a gentle hand on his back. He knew it was Bobby; safe, helpful, kind Bobby, but the touch made it worse. Panic welled up in his limbs, battled the convulsions of his stomach and managed to push out a strangled "Don't".

Hands retracted instantly, but the damage went right through. Another memory flashed back in between the ones he already had sorted; kneeling on cold, tile floor. Supported by strong arms and rocking forwards from... Oh god, no. He never wanted to see that again. He'd bury it. Deny ever knowing it. He could get past this if he never had to tell them how much it hurt. Because letting it wreak havoc however it wanted in his mind, like it did now, would mean healing slowly. Slowly wasn't good enough.

"Dean?" Sammy's voice. Sammy's tiny hands reaching for him. They didn't feel the same as someone else's, they didn't hurt or panic him when they came to rest on his back.

"It's okay. I'm okay."

Bobby groaned somewhere next to them, knowing what he did was compartmentalizing, although Dean himself had no idea or even heard the word. All he knew was that he needed to be fine when John came back. Bobby had called him, he had heard the subdued conversation through the open door. It had been short, Bobby telling John he had to come back, promising to finish the hunt he was on while he tended to his boys. It felt even worse knowing dad had to drop everything to come back and see them, it had taken him two weeks to get to where he was, pulling out now surely meant losing a good amount of progress. A few hours and he was probably due back, and Dean promised himself he would be fine by then. Ask for forgiveness for his stupid actions and promise to try harder next time he left a task for him. John probably wouldn't for a while though. He would stalk around them for months now, making sure none of them were out of sight longer than necessary. Dean knew it was for their safety, but it made him feel unable to do anything. Not even walking Sam to school would be his job anymore. Knowing that he couldn't be trusted to do it hurt more than the bruises.

*

John had called them back, said he was an hour or two away. Dean had dressed by then and tried to clean up the bathroom before Bobby brusquely told him to stop it and lay back down. But relaxing meant remembering. He needed to focus on something. So he took to sorting their clothes back into their duffels, they were probably moving back into the Impala tonight anyway. John drank or drove when he was upset. Dean preferred being on the road, to taking care of his father in a stupor. Inside he prayed they could just leave the motel behind, keep driving until it felt like someone else's memory.

*

Around 2 pm, the Impala veered into the parking-lot. It's low, steady rumble was unmistakable to the three people cooped up in the room. Bobby saw Dean tense up where he sat on the sofa, pretending to be watching TV but really just waiting. The boy's breathing sped up, his back straightened and he let go of the hand Sam seemed to be sneaking into his brother's whenever he could get away with it.

Dad's little soldier, getting ready for a disciplining, Bobby thought to himself. God, if John wasn't going to do this right he'd drive the boys home and damn if he would ever let John take them again.

"I'll go talk to him." He tried to keep his voice gentle when speaking to Dean, but truthfully Bobby was so mad he could barely keep it together. At John for letting this happen. At himself for not getting there sooner. But mostly at the universe for cursing this family time and again.

He made sure to lock the door when he walked out. Damn him to hell if anything more happened to the boys. John had barely parked the car when he noticed him across the pavement, instantly he threw himself out the driving side door and headed for Bobby. At least he looked concerned; dark eyes wide open and gestures showing how franticly he needed to know what had happened. The drive must have been torture. Going over scenarios, not knowing exactly what had happened to his own flesh and blood.

"What happened? Where are they?"

Bobby gestured to the room, but held up a hand to stop the other man from barging in there just yet. This needed a gathered approach to not rile the boy up even worse. Dean was already a product of his life, surely blaming himself for all of it without anything from the outside to help him along.

"Let me in, Bobby, I gotta see them!" John was anything but calm when it came to his family, and Bobby understood. Had they been his children, god he wished, he had been in there so fast there had barely been a door left. But they needed to be strong for this. John tried to press past the arm the older man held out in front of the door and he raised a clenched fist when he realized he wasn't going to be let in. Fury shone straight out of the man's eyes, but seeing his friend's fallen expression the fist slowly lowered. They gave each other a moment to pull back their emotions, calm themselves and steel against the pain.

Bobby tried explaining as gently as he could, chose words that wouldn't send the other man careening through the door and John listened quietly although he knew his mind must be running a mile a minute to comprehend it all. The implications of what had happened hit the other man hard, his eyes falling closed when the word neither of them had said still put a label on what kind of hurt the boy had been put through.

"You think he was..." John didn't dare say it, and he didn't open his eyes for fear of Bobby's expression if the word would fall from his mouth.

"All of it points towards it, John." Bobby finally took his arm down and instead re-arranged the cap on his head, a nervous habit he didn't have the strength to repress. "God, the boy is bruised all over."

John flinched at the thought. Someone had hurt them. Made it through their perfectly planned out defences, destroying and taking from them. Again. Angry as he was, he couldn't feel the burn of it like before. If anything it turned on him inside; reminding him there was now another thing he couldn't protect. Another failure when he thought he did what was right.

They both fell quiet, nothing disturbing the peaceful afternoon but the occasional passing car and the muffled sound of the TV through the motel-room door. It felt wrong that the sun still shone on them, that the Earth hadn't fallen into complete chaos when their own world seemed to have. But the world always kept turning, un-fazed by the amount of pain every day brought to everyone stuck on the damn crusted thing. John found it offensive.

"Let me in." John's voice was a lot more collected, but the anger still boiled somewhere behind it.

"John, you gotta do this right. Dean's already blaming himself enough, he doesn't need to feel any more like it's his fault." Bobby knew how the boy's mind worked, and he knew what kind of feelings his father instilled in him. Far too well, he knew them, because his had been the same. Given, John was far from as terrible as Bobby's father had been, but the pressure he put on the two kids was way out of proportion to what they could handle at their age.

Any little thing John did could set Dean's defences off, and neither of them knew how he was going to handle all of this. Acting out was out of the question, as long as John was around with his stern rules, but the damage the boy could do to himself... Bobby cursed every god and demon he knew; In the best case scenario John would handle this well, and the boy would " _only_ " be traumatized for life by what had happened to him. Worst case scenario? He was probably sworn to find out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Marion, Indiana - Spring of 1995**

"You told me we would stay this time!"

John stood in the kitchen, hovering over the table on which he had splayed out all the guns he had used on his last hunt. Two weeks of rain, and subsequent mud, hunting down a werewolf had gotten them dirty enough to take all night to clean out. And Sam chose that moment to start another row.

"We can stay another day or two to wrap your school up, but Bobby called me on something up in Madison. We're going Sam, stop arguing." His father kept on wiping grime of the shotguns, not even bothering to look up as he told him he had to uproot them again. Sam knew he could push it more, scream at his father until they were both making Dean step in to calm them down, but he didn't have the energy for it. Dean wasn't there to meddle anyway, he hadn't even followed dad back after the hunt. Two weeks at a school and he already had girls hanging off his arms. He was probably out showing them his new set of bruises, courtesy of the monster they had finally managed to kill tonight.

Sam had been at the motel waiting, going over his English-assignment again, for what reason he didn't know. It was something to do, as much as watching TV, the only difference being that he hadn't seen it a hundred times already. The motels all had the same channels, showed the same old movies and re-runs of the same stupid shows. None of them taught him anything  or pushed him out of the suffocating comfort of the moth-eaten couch.

Although he was angry with his father, he knew they wouldn't be staying. They never did. And Sam tried to tell himself that every time, prepare himself for another couple of months of unrest on the road. But then the pattern could suddenly change; they could stay for a couple of months at a place, giving him just enough time to believe in a stable place again. Make a few friends, pass a few classes before John pulled them back out again. It was like a long session of being water-boarded. Dean had threatened some bully with that if he ever messed with Sam again. Sam hadn't known what water-boarding meant at first, but now he did, having seen it on a history-documentary about some dictator in China. It looked how this all felt; Cold and suffocating.

"How about a late dinner after I've cleaned these? Whatever you like."

John's voice cut through his thoughts; soft and uncharacteristically gentle, and he realized he was still standing in the kitchen, staring empty at the way his father's hands worked. Whatever, he couldn't reach in for any real emotion or he would explode into screaming, so he shrugged his shoulders. Agreeing more because he knew it was John's way of trying to make things up to him than actually caring.

*

Dean turned up an hour and a half later, grinning wide enough to raise a brow on their father's face. None of them asked though. Sam usually would, just to know something about his brother's life. Their age-difference felt greater than it had in years and he clung to every genuine moment he got with his brother.

"Sam decides dinner tonight, get cleaned up." John's voice was relaxed, but Dean still reacted like he always did to the man; as if he had issued a vital order. It annoyed Sam more than anything. Sure, their dad had set the rules they were to follow for their own safety, but they weren't soldier. They were kids, and as much as he knew nothing of a real home and family, he knew kids rebelled. They were allowed to, it was normal, and at most left you grounded for a week. Rebelling in the Winchester-family meant risking death. And John's rage.

Dean bumped into him as he walked past to get a fresh set of clothes out of his duffle, his previously grinning face serious now and he mouthed  a 'You okay?' to his little brother.

Sam nodded, but he knew his mood showed in his silence. Usually a happy Dean meant a happy Sam, and what their father had offered him as a "sorry for uprooting you again" would on a regular day have them both in a good hurry to get going. He couldn't get excited about it this time though. Dean was happy without even being near him and "choose anything you want for dinner" really meant "nothing more expensive than the diner down the road."

Maybe he just wanted to go through his home-work again. Make it perfect for tomorrow. Leave school with a good impression. Sitting next to his dad and brother through dinner, going on about their last two weeks of hunting made his stomach tighten. It would be boring and he would feel left out. In the motel-room he was left to his thoughts, to whatever day-dream he felt like living in for the moment. If anything, he wanted to be at school again, or at a friend's house. Then he could forget. Until Dean bumped into him in the halls, smiling at him with girls in tow, or until the Impala roared around to signal the end to his safe moment of make-believe.

Whenever he tried to talk to them about it, they always jumped on him; made him feel guilty for feeling the way he did. He never meant he didn't love his family, that he wanted to leave them for something else, Sam just needed something that was _his_. Something _he_ was good at. And he was good at school.

At the parent-teacher meeting he had sat through a few days ago, dad hadn't showed up, probably forgetting or deeming it not as necessary as dealing with what was haunting the town.  
But the teacher; Emily, had been nice, sat down with him anyway, and told him what they all thought of him. Sam hadn't wanted to cling to every word the woman told him, but she was so nice, and she seemed so sincere. Maybe he could believe her. Make an exception to the rule, just this once.

"You're a great kid, Sam. All your teachers like you in their classes, and you're doing so well at everything. But your attendance is..." She had paused to flip through pages sent from other schools, his permanent record. "Your family keeps moving, and it's not doing you any favours, is it?"

Sam knew he had been supposed to fight, argue that his family was the best in the world, and that he was proud to be his father's son. But there was no strength in him left to pull from. Wherever he turned for support, he just found more demands. He wished he was still 5 years old and could curl up against Dean and cry his eyes out. But Dean was older, had his own life. They were both too grown for that now.

So he cried and fell apart in front of her, at her perfectly ordered desk in her perfectly normal office. And she patted his hand, held it softly in her own. Told him again that he was such a good student, that he deserved better than this. He had wished it was true. And secretly, though he would never admit it to Dean or John, right then he wished harder than anything, that he had a mom. Moms were supposed to love you unconditionally, make everything all right with just a touch of their hand and a smile on their face.

Emily probably had kids of her own, she was probably a great mom. And he had cried even harder when he felt the pang of jealousy hit him in the chest.

"Sam. If there is anything you want to talk about, anything you want help with, you can always take it up with me. Here, I'll write down my number -" Emily paused to tear a post-it from its pad and in  rounded, ornate letters she wrote down her name and phone-number. With a smile she handed it over. "Any time, Sam, whatever it is, no matter where your dad is taking you next. Okay?"

Sam nodded, sniffled a little as his crying had calmed down to a steady stream of tears but without the gut-wrenching sobs. Folding the paper and stuffing it in the back-pocket of his faded jeans, he knew he had to hide it somewhere safe when he got home. Dad wouldn't like him having ties to someone; for her sake, more than theirs, he knew that.

Emily had smiled and kept holding his hand, although the meeting felt over. When was the last time someone had held his hand? Years ago? When Dean still let him, probably. But they were men now, men didn't hold hands. Moms always held your hand, no matter your age. And they hugged you tight to their chest. He had seen it at his friends houses. God, he wished Emily would have been his mom, then she could have taken him home and he would never have to pack all his belongings into **one** stupid bag again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Madison, Wisconsin - Spring of 1995 (3 weeks later).**

Emily, had made him promise to continue talking to someone and call her whenever he needed to. Actually calling her would never happen, he knew that. Somehow dad or Dean would find out, and it would explode back in his face. Most things did. But talking to her that day had felt like releasing the pressure on a valve, and it had become the only thing he thought about now.  He needed someone to keep talking to, someone who would see his life for what it was; his father's choices, forced upon him.

Although it went against everything he was supposed to know and abide by, as soon as this school came into view from the backseat of the Impala; he had made up his mind. This horrible mood he was in wasn't ever going to go away on its own. His family wasn't going to change in the way he needed it to, to feel better about his life and himself. He needed to release this pressure in a way that didn't meant blowing up in his father's face every other day. Maybe they would even get along better if he did; a small tingle of hope nestled deep in his chest at the thought. Getting along with his father, Dean not having to step in and meddle between them when the shouting started. Maybe if he could talk to John without screaming, his brother would take his side, for once.

So he had gone to the school-counsellor. But that was where the easy part stopped. She had opened the door with a smile on her face as she towered over him. He had begun growing tall these past few months, but she was easily a head taller than him. Blonde hair hung wavy and loose around a freckled face. With a gentle handshake she introduced herself as Susanna-Lee, but laughed as if it was a preposterous name and told him to call her Susan.

"So, Sam, what would you like to talk to me about?" She started after having motioned for him to sit in an arm-chair across from her own. Sam stayed quiet, fidgeting with the hole in his jeans. Suddenly the white, fraying threads seemed much easier to handle than being fully present in the room.

"We can start out with just me asking a few questions if you like? Any time you feel too uncomfortable just tell me to stop and I will, alright?"

Sam nodded at that.

"I heard you just transferred here from Indiana. Are you from there, originally?"

A knot tightened in his stomach when he realized he was really going to talk about his life. This had been such a bad idea. But he was here, he might as well. Perhaps this wouldn't lead down any road he couldn't handle. And he could stop talking whenever he wanted, right?

"No. Kansas"

"Oh, okay. Did you live there long?"

"N.. No, I don't even remember it."

She nodded, seemingly unfazed by how he had started to grip the leg of his jeans tightly in his hands. He hadn't noticed either until it started to hurt.

"You moved away when you were little?" He nodded and she continued. "What's the first place you remember? From when you were younger."

Sam shrugged. He didn't really know, never having cared when and where dad had taken them next. It was always just a blur of states, schools and motels. He remembered winters holed up in motel rooms in Montana, watching the snow fall heavy on the parking lot outside. Playing in the occasional park in Arkansas, when they stopped for a chance to stretch their legs. And summers at Bobby's. Somehow that felt most like his world's middle. Whenever they went back there he could breathe again, John's presence didn't feel as suffocating and Dean and him got to revert a bit in their age. Lawrence had never been home to him, although to Dean it was both the epicentre of his world and the horrible place where it all started. Or ended.

"Uncle Bobby's? It's not the first place I remember, but it's.. most like home, I guess."

Sam had yet to look up, so he didn't see the warm smile she gave him over her notepad.

"Do you go back there often?

"No, not really. Every few months, maybe? Just once this year so far." He wasn't sure he liked where this was going. Tears already burned in his eyes, but he fought them , squeezing his eyes together tightly and pressing his teeth together. Why was he crying over thinking about Bobby's house? It was just a two-story, run-down dump, just like the junkyard. Definitely nothing better than the motels they stayed at. He had his own bed there though. It creaked when you laid down on it, and was missing a few bars underneath, but it didn't smell like strangers or cheap detergent. Dean had sat on it once, and fallen straight through the bottom. They hadn't stopped laughing until Bobby came to see what the fuzz was about. He'd given them a stern look, but ruffled Sam's hair as he helped Dean up.

"Would you like to spend more time there?

"I don't know. Maybe. It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters, Sam. It matters to you, it's where you feel most at home. Everyone is entitled to somewhere to call home."

Sam laughed, short and drowned in frustration.

"We can't have a home. Dad says it's not for people like us."

"People like you?"

God, he wished he hadn't said that. She would question it all now. And he would have to lie. Come up with another background story like the seven million others he'd forced out of his head to satisfy nosy classmates and teachers.

She let the question hang in the air, but he wouldn't answer it. Didn't want to talk about what his father did any more than he already had to every day. That wasn't him, he didn't want to become his father. He would give **anything** to not become his father.

"Tell me about school."

The sudden change of topic threw him off his train of thought. What did she want to know now? His mind started trying to compass what harm talking about school could do, but couldn't really find one. Dad's training and dad's rules, that was what he had to fight; not this. 'You can just stop talking again if she asks things you don't want to answer', he calmed himself. You wanted to talk, remember?

"Ehm.. I like school, I guess. Some classes are really cool."

"What's your favourite?"

"Math. And English. They're easy."

"Easy huh? Wow, a **lot** of kids wished they could say the same." Her smile returned, and Sam felt slightly more at ease. Maybe it could work. Maybe this was a way to get better.

*

"Sammy, what's with all these books?"

Oh crap. He knew he should have left them in the locker at school. Or hidden them when he'd gotten back. Damn, he had slacked off again. He couldn't turn around and face his brother. Dean was probably freaking out, which meant he had to play it cool, have an excuse at the ready to explain away the severe topic of most of the books in his backpack.

"Oh, school stuff. It's for health-class."

Dean stayed silent, didn't shoot him a quick comeback like usual, but that only increased the volume of him flipping through the pages of a few of the books and pamphlets. Please, believe it. Please, Dean. Leave it.

"That's one hell of a bit heavy for a 6th grader." Sam shrugged his shoulders, not sure if Dean saw it from over by the beds, but he tried to play it off as nothing. Although knowing Dean was rummaging through the only things that had kept him going for the last few weeks, made his heart pound in panic.

"Sure it's really nothing?" Dean's voice was still serious and prying. Sam felt on display although he wasn't even in view of his brother. "You've been acting odd lately, and if **this** is why, you need to talk to me."

"Yeah, like you have time to talk to me..." He mumbled under his breath.

"What was that, Sammy?"

"Nothing. Back off okay! It's just school-work, and I'm acting weird because I'm confined to a freakin motel-room all the time."

"Whatever." Dean left it at that. Thank god.

As soon as his brother had stepped outside to clear his head, or whatever he did outside of their shared room of confinement nowadays, Sam ran for his books. Snatching the pack, he made sure they were all there. Maybe Dean was right; they were a bit heavy, but reading kept him grounded, kept the thoughts of frustration to a minimum.

It had been a while since he started talking to the counsellor at school, she had kept probing and prodding with questions, and slowly he had started answering more and more of them. They didn't talk much at all about school now, just mostly about how he was feeling. How he was getting on with dad. And Dean.

 Dean had been taking up more space in his head than usual. Nothing about them was easy and natural anymore, they barely spoke, and when they did it was just as if they were constantly in an argument none of them knew anything about. Evenings where they usually had been sitting around on the couch together, Dean helping as best he could with Sam's homework, or just watching a movie, had been traded for evenings alone. Dean stumbling home after midnight, if dad wasn't home, smelling of beer and cigarette-smoke. He didn't want to hate his brother, but sometimes he did.

 Surprisingly, talking went a long way to stop it all from getting worse, and he didn't seem to dig himself as deep into everything as before. He didn't snap at everything his father said nowadays, not even when he belittled him and he could feel his self-hatred swell as it doubled. But the books, the ones about anxiety and depression; they told him he wasn't alone. It wasn't his fault he couldn't take the pressure he was under. It was dad's. And whatever it was that took mom. But he could live with neither of them knowing what their actions did to him, as long as he could tell himself that he didn't deserve it. That he could go against what they forced on him, and break his own path out of it. Because if he had to step into the same line as Dean took; walking not just in dad's footsteps, but literally in the man's shoes, then the pills he had scoured from Bobby's medical cabinet and hidden in the lining of his duffel would really be the better choice.

*

"Dad..."

John didn't look up from the book he was currently scouring for info on church-grims. Neither he nor Bobby had seen something like it before. And the only book he'd found on them was in Swedish, which really did nothing to bring this hunt to a quicker end. Just finding a goddamn Swedish to English dictionary had taken three days.

"Mm?"

Dean didn't move, still standing in front of the chair his father was occupying in the living room. He fumbled with the paper in his hand though, slipping it from corner to corner, one of many a nervous tick appearing only when he had to talk to John.

"I think something is up with Sam."

His father looked up a few seconds, eyed Dean's face and read the blatant worry on it. Instincts kicked in and he rummaged through the last few days worth of memories, but couldn't find anything that seemed out of place. If anything, Sam seemed to be happier. Dean, on the other hand worried him a bit. The late nights out, the girls he kept changing more often than underwear.

"He's probably just moping, Dean, it's who he is. Give him a couple of days and he'll be fine."

Usually Dean never argued. He had learned not to fight back, had no urge to disobey orders, unlike Sam. He knew what disobeying led to. But he didn't think this was going to be fine.

"I don't think that's it, dad. I found this in his backpack." Dean offered the paper and John took it, evidently annoyed by the break of concentration from his work.

Dean didn't know if this was the best way to get his brother help. Hell, if he didn't already have help. But what was he to do? It was Sammy, whatever this led to he knew he had to do something, or he would regret it. He had already failed to protect his brother so many times before, now he didn't dare take any chances. And John would know what to make of it. Right?

*

"Sammy, I'm sorry!" Dean yelled as soon as Sam had opened the door to their motel room. He searched for where his brother's voice had come from, but before he even managed to close the door, John was on him like a hawk.

"What the hell is this?"

A crinkled paper from a note-book. Scribbled notes in his own handwriting. Nothing had felt as frightening as this. Blood rushed in his veins, his heart seemed to pump it at twice its normal rate and it all made him queasy and light-headed. What was the appropriate answer to that? 'You see dad, although I'm only turning 13 this year, I have already written down what I want to be my last words. Just in case your goddamn yelling pushes me over the edge.'

"It's just school-stuff."

"Your fucking school teaches you to make a will at 12 years old? Try me again, Sam."

It would always blow back in his face. No matter how tactical he was with hiding what he was doing, dad would always find out, and he would always make it stop. Growing in any other way than the way he dictated, was always wrong. Always dangerous.

And why was Dean sorry? A glance behind John, and he found Dean gripping the couch with whitening knuckles. He kept mouthing 'sorry', giving away the story with his face. Of course his brother had told him. Surely showed him the treasure that was his bag of books, because he knew he had written that note and hidden it deep inside one of them. No one could be trusted, could they? Whatever he said he was going to lose it all again. Dad would pull them out of school, take them far away from anyone they knew **again** to make sure nothing followed with them. Hours of talking with Susan, she had tried to tell him this wasn't all right, his father wasn't god almighty and he could be wrong. But standing in front of him, the sole object of his rage, always brought any confidence he had built, straight back down again.

"I'm.. I'm seeing the school-counsellor."

John didn't move or say anything at first, seemed dumbstruck by the revelation. But then the tirade began in its usual form. Sam took it, let it roll back around the tiny sliver of hope he had found in that room with her 2 times a week, and wring the life right out of it. Sam stood with his hands hanging limp at his sides, still with his school-bag on his back, head turned down low against his chest and what was even the point of crying?

"Dad" Dean tried to cut in, but getting drowned in between John's harsh words about family and responsibility. "Dad, can't we sit down and talk about this?"

John flung around on his heels, staring down Dean instead of Sam. Eyes still dark and brows furrowed.

"Get. Out."

"But, Dad, we can - "

"Dean, get the hell out of here. Now." It wasn't shouted, but the order struck him just as hard none the less.

"Yes, sir."

Sam wished Dean would take him with him, as he walked past him out the door. 'Please, Dean, please don't leave me with him here. You've left me so many times, never fought for me like you promised you always would. Please, just this once, stand up to him!" . But he knew neither of them would have fought their father in this kind of rage. They both knew he wasn't in control anymore. As soon as his brother had slipped the door shut and the heels of his boots had made it far enough to fade into the background-noise of the world outside, John released the rest of his lesson on his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be a bit longer/different than I had ment to, and was really hard on me to write, but I blame it on the complex image I have in my head about who Sam is. Any way, I hope it was readable. And thank you, thank you, thank you, for the comments and kudos so far, they are more addictive and inspirational than chocolate cake.
> 
> Oh, also! Shameless Swedish insertion because I'm a Swede, and church-grims are awesome things.


	6. Chapter 6

**Ames, Iowa - August 1999**

Where everything had been physical and wrestling and damn near fist-fights when they were little, there was nothing now. Dean felt it like a hole in himself. They had always been 'Sam-and-Dean', but as far apart as they were now, they had never been before. And it was all his own fault. Physical touch had become a double-edged sword, where he wanted to drown in it completely just before the panic set in and he wanted it off his body as fast as possible. Sam needed to know he was there for him, but Dean didn't know how to begin explaining why he couldn't.

So he set up his own line of rules; no shoving, no touching, no ruffling Sam's hair like he was 8 years old and still idolized him. He drowned the emptiness it left in its wake in girls. One after the other when the first one came too close to mean anything more than that first euphoria release brought with it.

Lately they had been slipping into routines none of them wanted in the first place. Sam was arguing with dad again, every other day they found something new to disagree about. As if the real issue they both wanted to address was just too hard to bring up, so every little thing the other did annoyed them like a fly in your morning coffee. And Dean was dealing with it all like the man he had to model after, it all started with having a beer with dad to celebrate the last successful hunt.  
 _'Good job, boy. But you gotta' keep up on your knife- skills.'_ Always a stupid gibe after the praise, and soon he wasdrinking on the weekends, attending every school-party he could, because hey, free booze and uncomplicated lays . Every Friday night he lied to his brother  "Yeah, I'll watch a movie with ya, Sammy, just going out a bit. No, I'll be right back!", which meant drinks at a bar and a quickie in a rent-by-the-hour motel-room or some dingy bathroom stall.

And it mean Sam alone with dad, and seeing streaks of tears on Sammy's sleeping face when he sneaked back to their room in the middle of the night, and guilt, and guilt, and so much guilt. And he took it, bashed himself for every fucking thing he knew he was doing wrong, but didn't know how to handle otherwise. He couldn't crack, had to step up and be there for Sammy in the ways he still could. Had to have dad's back when they hunted. Had to keep the girl of the week sated, and the school off his back about his homework. A beer helped, felt right and relaxing in his hand, felt just like the slap on his back from his dad for a job well done and drowned out the words he didn't want to hear from him, but that John said anyway. He had forgotten where he got his safety from before everything went to shit and changed.

*

When dad said Bobby was meeting up with him outside of town _, we won't need you on this one boy_ , he found himself at a loss for what to do. He spent the first few days loitering around at school after hours. Then taking.. Sarah? No, something weirder. Sheeran? Sloan? Her, anyway, on a date to the movies. But anxiety crept up his legs and made him restless, and he had to leave her after only half the movie if he didn't want to have a full on panic-attack in front of her. He faked an emergency call from John, something about needing help with the car. She seemed hurt and quietly asked him if they could do it again some time. He wasn't even sure he answered her, his brain was so strung up on the craving of his anxiety, he barely waved when he rounded the corner of the building.

It always happened the same way; small at first, a nagging feeling  of not-quite-right and something in his head telling him he shouldn't be there. Shouldn't be anywhere. He was terrible and there was no way to ever be good enough; that girl wasn't there for him, she hated him. Dad hated him. **Sam** hated him. Before he knew it had fully blown out of proportion. Breathing ran straight into panicked gasping and his body choked for air even though he was getting enough. His knees buckled under him and he didn't care where he fell, he had no control over anything. Pain was the only thing that helped to blur it out and reaching out to punch his hand into the brick wall next to him was a reflex more than a choice. It had something to do with endorphins and chemicals of the brain, but fuck if he didn't care as long as it worked. A split knuckle and the beginnings of a good bruise later, he could breathe again. Still shivering and shaky-legged but okay. Afterwards he was always tired, as if his body had worked out for hours without him knowing. Before he even made the conscious decision, Dean's legs moved him towards their motel. He needed the safety and warmth of familiarity, he needed Sam and his stupid words that always helped in some weird ass way.

*

"That's gotta´ be some kind of record, even for you Dean. She that into you?"

Sam's voice was well on its way to breaking through past the puberty-wall, and he was getting so damn tall. Legs all knobby knees and big ass feet, telling of how much taller he was going to get. Before the last growth-spurt, he could easily lie lengthwise on the sofa, but now he usually opted for sliding down low against the backrest, legs splayed out across the living room table, as if it was his personal footstool.

Dean poked at his brother's legs to get him to let him pass, and he walked past, dumping his body down heavy next to what looked like a very bored Sam.

"Shove it, kiddo. What'cha watching?" He tried for normalcy, hiding the hitch in his breath from the walk back and gave no clue to what had happened. It wasn't the first time, and Dean could handle it. Sam wasn't supposed to be his crutch, Dean was supposed to be his.

Sam shrugged and looked back to the TV.

"Some cop-show. Their gun-skills are crap."

Dean snorted. Yeah, they always were. But they were actors who'd never had to shoot something straight in the face so it would let go of his brother, who stood bleeding but fierce in its arms, trusting you to save him. Every shot rang straight and true when that happened. No margin of error allowed.

"Dad's on my case about improving yours."

Sam sighed and he could _hear_ the change in his brother's posture when he reacted to it like any another one of dad's remarks; by sucking in air in his chest, readying for fight or flight.

"But I told him if you practiced any more, you'll end up permanently stuck to the thing. He can shove it. " Air welled out of Sam in a chuckle as he relaxed, and Dean was glad to see a smile back on his face. Everything was better when Sam smiled. Life felt worthwhile and he could tell himself job well done and push the voice of his anxiety back behind a wall of screw-you-I-did-this-right-and-I-know-it.

"Thanks, man."

"No problem, dude. Besides, shotgun stuck to your arm can't be as cool as movies make you believe. Jackin' off would be a freakin nightmare."

"Eeew, Dean, really?" A foot of gigantic proportions pushed at his legs, trying to shove him farther away on the sofa. As if the thought he just planted in his brother's head would disappear of Dean was just more than an arm's length away.

"Hey! Get your big-foot feet off me!" Before he got a hold of the sock-clad horrors, Sam had managed to get his other foot under Dean's leg and used all his strength to push it over. The older boy's body twisted with the shove and tumbled over the low armrest of the sofa. Dean landed face-first into the carpet and it shoved the breath out of him with a thud. After thanking god for fully-carpeted motel-rooms, he rolled over on his back and stilled on the floor.  
"Oh, crap! Dean, you okay?"  Sam's stupid little face eyed him over the arm-rest, and was already reaching out a hand to help him up.

"Nope. Dead. Ya' gonna' have to burn me before I start stinking up the place." His answer earned him a roll of hazel eyes and a look of 'god, Dean, don't joke about stuff like that'. As cold as the floor was, he tucked his arms in behind his head and looked at his brother for a minute. Sam felt the shift in Dean's mood and laid down on the sofa, head propped up on his arms and trying his best not to stare back at his brother on the floor. So much had changed between when they used to sleep in the same sleeping-bag, managing to wake dad every other hour because they were busy retaliating from a pinch or a shove from the other and too young to realize their stifled laughter was still pretty damn loud. Dad would be mad, even sent them out of the motel-room to sleep in the car once. It had felt like they were camping out, at least what he thought it would feel like. They had gone camping a few times, but it usually meant them hiding shit-scared in the tent while dad and Bobby killed whatever needed killing in the woods.

This felt like real camping. Sadly there were no stars to look at, just the water-stained ceiling and ruddy carpet to lie on. But it felt like it was theirs, a moment away from pressure and watchful eyes. Maybe he shouldn't, and maybe Sam didn't miss him like he missed him, but this felt like a moment he couldn't destroy by saying what he had wanted to say for a while.

"Sammy."

"Mm?"

"You're my brother."

"No shit, dude."

"Really? With the attitude?" His voice betrayed how hard this was to say, and Sam seemed to hear the tinge of hurt in it and mumbled a 'sorry' before silence fell back down over the room again.

"I just need you to know some stuff, alright?"

Sam nodded as best he could with his chin rested on his arms.

"Whatever.. happens, you know? Wherever dad takes us. You're my brother and that can't ever be changed. You come first, okay? You're always my priority number one. So.. yeah, don't feel like you can't talk to me about stuff, or that you need to keep things from me. I know I've fucked up before, but I'm gonna' do my best to make it up to you."

Dean talked slow, wanting to say much more but had no clue what words were the right ones and if he already had fucked up enough to not make Sammy believe him when he told him. But he needed him to know; that dad was dad, but Sam was Sam. When he'd carried him out of that fire, he had become his responsibility no matter what anyone said, and despite the fact that they still had someone looking out for them. Dean would always be Sam's hawk, flying just above, making sure he was fine.

"Dean, you've got nothing to make up for." Sam's words hit him warm and right and just where he needed them. He wished them to be true, so maybe they could silence the voice in him that kept telling him he was inadequate every minute of every day. He had to lay his head back down, break eye-contact with his brother, close his eyes and just revel in the feeling a bit. A brief space of time without fears and anxieties. Yes, he had missed when they talked, laughed, built a home in each other that no one could take away from them.

 A rustle came from the couch, and with his eyes closed from all distraction he heard heavy footsteps of sock-clad feet make it over to him where he still lay splayed out on the carpet. Warm fingers tugged at his arm, and he released it from under his head, letting Sam spread it out. Dean felt unkempt locks tickle his naked arm as his brother laid his head down on it, and he couldn't help to indulge his old habit of messing the brown hair up even more just so he could hear Sam laugh and squirm and tell him to stop.

Sam didn't tell him to stop this time, didn't laugh, didn't make even the slightest hint that he felt uncomfortable and that the moment was over. Just stayed where he'd laid down, arms relaxed but unmoving at his sides. Dean felt brazen by the stillness, stalled his hand with a fistful of hair cradled in it and pulled his brother's head closer. Dean tucked Sam's face in against the curve of his own neck and rested his chin on top of the unruly curls Sam had let grow wild the past year. Although he was constantly growing and changing, nothing smelled like Sam. It was so familiar it was ingrained in him that his smell meant family. Meant everything was fine and safe. It calmed him to a core he was afraid to let anything else near.

"We've been through a lot of shit, Sammy."

"Yeah."

Sam's voice was so small he could almost see him at 8 years old, cradling his own sobbing figure that horrible day when everything changed.

"An' I can't promise there won't be more shit where we're headed."

"I know, Dean."

Dean **wanted** to promise his brother they would be fine, that everything would work out. But he had to make up for the years he hadn't been there; spaced out and gratifying his own pain and refusing to see what he was losing. And before anything else he had to stop making so many promises he didn't intend to keep, because Sam was worth all the pain in the world and he had to make sure he knew that. If he could make his brother believe in himself at least one of them could get something out of this life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope this still keeps up to what you have been reading so far, this chapter is a bit different and I reworked it a lot. It has taken me some time to arrange the chapters as I want them, so I keep changing the amount of them. But I have it all mapped out in my mind, so it's all just logistics now and the next few chapters should be out much faster than this one.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, thank you, thank you, and thank you for the comment and kudos. I wouldn't have the energy to finish this if it wasn't for the idea that someone actually wants to know where I'm going here.


	7. Chapter 7

**Kirksville, Missouri - 2005**

It had been one of those fights. Where afterwards they had to keep going, acting professional in their FBI-suits, while they both knew nothing had been solved between them. Dean did his usual dance of getting pissed because Sam was "dragging up old shit". Which apparently meant talking about anything that happened before they split two years ago.

Sam himself was frustrated that his brother wouldn't even try to see things with any other eyes than John's. Pointing out that Dean had taken after their father had not been a good choice, he learned, and thinking about it now, he involuntarily flexed his aching jaw and ran a hand over the yellowing bruise. Thankfully, Sam could take a punch without having to deal one back, and Dean was able to focus enough to compartmentalize their argument and still keep working.

Parts of Sam blamed himself for how his brother acted now. If he hadn't left him, he could have kept fighting John when his brother couldn't. And the only role he had to mould after wouldn't have to have been the unstable wheel of guilt that was their father. But Dean was older, he was supposed to be the role-model, and listening to Sam's reasoning over his father's was as ridiculous as angels in heaven, apparently. Sam had known he had to break with them both to keep his sanity. Moving to Stanford had been impossibly hard, but also a sweet release from the pressure his life had been under before. Suddenly he had been allowed to rule over his own life and mind without being questioned every time.

It had been hard at first, Jess likened it to an abusive relationship because it's hard to know how to function when you get out of it. Slowly he had learned to build himself up instead of tear down. And despite the horrors he had waded through since, he felt strong like never before. Jess was gone, but she was still the voice in his head that protected him against the self-hatred.

Sam didn't have the strength for his usual harsh look when Dean pushed a witness a little too hard for no good reason. He just let him wrap it up, do it his way so he could get out of the claustrophobic suit. They needed new ones; at least he did. The pants were a good inch too short and the shoulders of the jacket fit way too snug. Sam hadn't worn the suit since a dinner with Jess' parents. It wouldn't fool anyone for much longer.

"Back to the motel?" He asked Dean, when his brother joined him outside the police-station. Kirksville was a small town, barely held a dozen officers, and the station looked more like a regular house than an official building. A triple-homicide had shook the town to its core just a few days ago, but no one seemed to have seen anything about what had killed the victims. They had both smelled sulphur on the bodies in the morgue though, clear as day.

Dean grunted and threw Sam the keys across the Impala's roof. What the hell?

"How are you mad with me and still letting me drive?"

*

Everything was still tension and brooding when they reached the motel. Sam didn't know if he was to be genuinely worried, or take the silence as Dean's way of dealing with their row. Parts of him wanted to poke and prod and get a reaction. Nowadays screaming at him seemed to be the only way his brother could be truthful anymore. As if outbursts of anger gave leeway for other emotions to pour out of the same wound. But he was too tired and apathetic to start something again. It felt like apathy had become what his body met everything with now. And he knew exactly why.

 Stanford had meant a new beginning, somewhere away from the usual things that dragged his mood down. He had still felt the same though, still waiting for the other shoe to drop and for the world to kick him down further into his personal pit of hell. Nothing seemed to catch his attention anymore, nothing punched through the thick hide he'd built around himself. Until Jess did. Wonderful, accepting Jess who spent more than one night talking him through what the fuck was wrong with him. Calmed him down with soothing kisses when anxiety kicked him hard enough in the head to lose focus on school and twisted him to believe in the words John had planted in his head. For weeks after his first dip into a deeper rut, she had begged him to seek some help, to talk with someone who knew how to ask the right questions. And just as many times he had refused. Sam had learned a hard truth the last time he tried for outside help. But she persevered, nagged and explained to deaf ears, until she had physically dragged him to an appointment with a doctor.

'Flat expressions, insomnia, complains of chest-tightness and overwhelming panic. A history  of re-occurring depressive episodes. Suspected anxiety-disorder. '. Sam had stared at the paper the doctor had handed him after talking to him for what felt like a fleeting hour. He had nodded silently when he had been referred to a psychiatrist for a longer evaluation. After that it had taken a few months to get the dosages right on the medication he was given. Some days his mouth was dry enough it felt like a desert, and others he felt like he could sleep for days. Eventually it all evened out. His mind could focus again, without spikes of anxiety tripping up his heartbeats and the following depressive cycles that followed after. For a while he barely remembered his past, drowned it in term papers and Jess' plans for their future. And it had been so easy to merge the few things he wanted in his life with her dreams for them, because she believed in him just as fiercely as John had pushed him down. And he had wanted it, drowned so easy in the good she brought. Now, without her, he realized she was far more of a mood-balancer than the pills he'd taken so religiously.

*

Back in their hotel-room, Dean mumbled something about dinner and excused himself. Sam tried offering to go with him and they could eat outside of the cramped room they holed up in, but his brother had slammed the door before he had finished the sentence. Frustration welled up, and the need to scream and throw something  felt really palpable for a second before he decided to just let it go, breathe the reactions out of his nose in pushy puffs of air until his mind was back to control.

Sam sat down on the bed, the dingy duffel he still kept his clothes in lying stuffed to the brim next to him. It had long expired being big enough for his school-stuff, but for some reason he'd kept it folded in a corner of his closet for all his time at Stanford. When Dean had shown up, slamming him back into the familiarity of hunting and living on the go, there was never any hesitation to what he had to bring with him, or in what to pack. Shoes, boxes, stacks of old school-papers littered their closet and he had ripped them all out to get to that last part he kept from home. Now the reverse was true; only one thing remained from his time at Stanford in between all the hunting-gear that occupied the bag. In an inside-pocket, behind two zippers and hidden in a plastic bag, he found it.

A shake of the bottle told him what he already knew well enough; . It had been two weeks since he had started running out of his medication, and he hadn't had more than 5 minutes to himself since then, giving him no time to refill his prescription. Thinking about the empty pill-jar and how Jess had been the last one to buy him a refill, maybe this was the time to let it go? Finalize that turn around a corner  of what he thought would be a happy point in his life. No medicine would help against how he felt now, it had barely taken the edge off anything the last few weeks anyway.

For weeks he had been easing down his doses, and surprisingly he felt better than he thought he would. For two years the anti-depressants had done their job; kept him levelled and together enough to focus on school. Jess and the meetings with his psychologist had helped with the rest. For the last year, they had even scheduled down his weekly visits to monthly.

Then Dean had wrestled him down in the dark. Pulled him out and broken the barrier between his new life and the old one. Sam threw the orange bottle in the trash-can by the door and hoisted his army-duffel off the bed, scrounging for the last pair of clean jeans he knew were in there somewhere. He needed a shower, needed to feel the water pound his skin, and maybe fool himself that he could feel the last of the medicine pour out of him together with the dirt.

*

"I'm still mad at you."

Sam looked up from his laptop, his eyes worked hard on re-focusing on something else than the bright light of the laptop's screen. Dean lay on the couch in the dark of the room, fifth beer of the day dangling from his fingertips. Sam didn't know if it was their recent fight his brother was addressing or if the beer had let lose something that had been lurking deeper.

"What for?" He tried for casual, one eye on his brother and one still on the screen, but trying to pass it off as nothing. Talking to Dean was like walking across a minefield of trigger-able emotions and he didn't even have a light to guide him. What he was going to get this time, all depended on what he decided to say.

Dean huffed, as if he was mad at Sam for not even knowing why he was mad. But Sam knew full well, he just didn't know for which instance.

"You left me."

Stanford. Of course. As long as they had been on the road together since then, Dean had thrown it back in his face so often there **couldn't** possibly be anything more they could fill the argument with. It still hurt in him as well, but none of them had realized that. It was all anger from John and guilt from Dean.

Sam sighed, what was he supposed to say? Dean was good on his way to drunk and he was so tired of his brother's drunken tirades. They reminded him of John too much. Of why he had to remove himself from them in the first place.

"I understand why you left dad. Hell, Sammy, I would've too if I could've." Dean's voice barely travelled across the room,  sounding downright weak next to the low humming of Sam's laptop. He could still hear the hidden plea behind the words though. It sounded like guilt, pouring over Sam's head, and his legs felt like bolting out of there. "But he got worse, y'know? Blamed me for putting stupid ideas in your head."

As much as it frustrated Sam, the relationship between his brother and his father; the high-commander and his soldier, he thought it would have calmed down if he wasn't there to edge them both on. John was hot-blooded like Dean, exploded in anger and harsh words but calmed quickly. What could have become worse by him leaving?

Suddenly, Dean chuckled, the sound muffled slightly by the neck of the bottle he had raised to his mouth just before. Sam looked at him in confusion, but his brother stared straight ahead at the TV.

"And god, as much as he was pissed at you for leaving, every freakin' time he was close by to Palo Alto, he would stay gone longer. 'N every time he came back, he was brimming with so much fuckin' rage he tried to pick a fight with anything close enough."

"What?" Dad had come to Stanford? Had he known where Sam lived? Watched him at home, leaving for school, laughing with Jess.

Dean raised his bottle, waved it in a gesture as if he was trying to paint Sam a picture of the situation.

"Oh, an' once when he came back; drunk and furious, he even tried to belt me. Like he used to when we were kids, y' remember Sammy? Told him to shove it as fuckin' far as he could up his ass."

Sam didn't know what to say. Every word out of his brother's mouth was just another punch in his chest that hurt more than the other one. Breathing was hard and his fingers rattled against the keyboard as he started shaking. From fear or pain he didn't really know.

"If he hadn't been so damn drunk he probably could've done some damage. But he just waved it around until I took it from him and told him to chill down and take it up in the morning. He kept on rambling though, y'know, like he does about "honour and responsibility towards your family". But that didn't take like he wanted it to."

Sam licked his lips in a nervous attempt at getting any kind of words out.

"An - what - What happened, Dean?"

The room suddenly felt as tense as that moment must have. Every piece of light seemed to be overwhelmed by the overall darkness, and Sam felt as if the dark was choking the life out of him. While he had been warm in Jess' arms, Dean had been forced to deal with dad's anger. God, he hadn't meant for that to happen. He thought he made it better. Left them to hunt like they wanted, so he could go to school like he wanted. When he thought about it now, had he even asked Dean what he wanted? All he had heard back then was "John says" "John wants". And Dean had been annoying and shaped into John's image. But he wasn't really, was he? He was blunted down by their father's anger. Anger meant for Sam and the world. Fuck, he felt like shit for this.

"He told me I deserved it."

Sam shook his head in an effort to follow Dean's track of mind.

"Deserved what? A belting?"

"No."

"That I left? What?"

A thunk against the carpeted floor and Sam knew his brother had let the bottle slip out of his hands. Steady fizzing told him beer had started seeping into the carpet, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but what the hell had gone on when he left.

"He started using it against me, what happened when I was .. what happened with that guy.. back in Nebraska."

Nebraska? Surely not even John was that freakin' stupid to put that on his brother's conscience. He was a kid, they both were, and dad hadn't been there to make sure they were safe and okay. Hell, he didn't even make sure they were okay _after_ the fact. Just threw them back in the car and drove for days.

" ** _I_** let someone in to our home. ** _I_** was in charge. And **_you_** could have been hurt. I kept screwing up, y'know? And he told me I deserved it. "

"Goddamnit, Dean."

"Yeah, well..." Dean trailed off, shrugging his shoulders somewhere over on the couch and Sam wanted to run to him, hold him like he had that night and make it better. Pour something soothing over the scars it had left and that John had kept ripping back open. Sam stood to walk over before he could realize it, naked feet against worn carpet and it wasn't until he put a hand on Dean's shoulder his brother reacted to his movement.

"Don't touch me!"

"I'm sorry, Dean, sorry. I won't. I promise, I won't. Just..." Sam took his hand back and hurried out apology after apology. Kneeling down next to the patch of beer-stained carpet, he rubbed a hand over his own tired eyes and he hoped he didn't look as lost as he felt at that moment. God, what was he supposed to do? "I'm sorry I left, Dean. I mean it. And I'm sorry about what dad said, he shouldn't have because it's not true. Dad is... isn't what he should be."

Tired, worn-out as if the one shout had entirely drained Dean's entire body of its usual endless strength. "I know"

Silence fell, pressing darkness around them again, and although Sam knew more now, he wasn't sure he had wanted to. But Dean hadn't ever been allowed to let his own hurt surface like this before. While Sam allowed himself the time to live his own pain through, to talk it over with people who  taught him good techniques to handle his issues, and medicine to combat the things he couldn't, Dean had had none of those. And he never would allow himself any of it, if Sam tried offering. So he knew he had to be Dean's self-esteem; keep pushing him into good things just as John pushed the other way. It could take ages, prodding at the walls Dean so proudly put up and hid behind. But if booze and some arguing was what his brother needed to let a few of them down and start to deal with things, then that was what they had to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're still with me here and enjoy it so far. A few chapters left, and it's about different ways of dealing with things. And yeah, the DeanxCas tag will be the last part, so, stay tuned.


	8. Chapter 8

**Cold Oak, South Dakota - May 2007**

He could breathe again. A year left of his days up-top, but who the fuck cared right now? Sam was breathing, talking, yelling something that looked awfully important at him. But all he could see was the way his brother's shoulders bunched together  and worked the muscles of his chest when he started gesturing  long arms around, evidently explaining something lost on Dean's spaced out mind. His arms looked the same, muscled, flecked with scars  but flush with colour like they hadn't been hours before. Life was back in Sam, and back in Dean. For now.

Nothing had felt like the relief of Sam taking his first breath again. If it hadn't seemed weird, he would still like to cling to his brothers body; hug him so tight they started syncing breaths and relaxing into what felt like the only safe space in the world. They used to do that, when they were kids. Hold on for dear fucking life when Dad had it out with Bobby, or just talked to himself in increasingly rising volumes outside their bedroom when he had too much to drink. Sometimes he wished they hadn't stopped doing it, that they hadn't had to grow up. But really, the reason they stopped was his fault. Every touch had started to freak him out after he was touched by someone not allowed to. And he wanted to be okay, because Sammy was back, and they only had a year now. But he couldn't push through it, the panic welled up and visions flicked past his eyes of his own blue-tinted skin in the shape of fingers and -

"Dean!"

"Mm?" Yeah, good save Sammy, not going into that memory. Nope, shovelled it back to whenever hell froze over and needed a good torture-flick to watch on its snow-days. He was bound to have a few of those, rotting away down there as he was destined to now.

"Keys. Car. Bobby. You gettin' any of what I'm sayin'?'"

"Uh, yeah, 'f course."

 

*

 

Sam had started pushing when he realized he only had a year left. Between evenings of trying to avoid his brother's anger about the deal, and others when he seemed too panicked to even breathe, the million dollar question came up; "Why can't you just talk to me about it?"

They had kept on hunting just like Dean wanted to. Every step of the way, Sam was there pleading with puppy eyes for them to stop and do whatever the hell you were supposed to do when you were sure you were dying. Make a bucket-list like terminal cancer-patients? Cross of ridiculous things on a piece of paper that would amount to nothing in the end and kid himself into that he was some kind of delicate thing until his one year was up? Hunting, drinking, some sex thrown in for good measure when he got the time for it; that was his bucket-list. But Sam wouldn't let it lie.

"We _have_ talked about this, Sammy." Dean shovelled a good portion of bacon into his mouth. At least he wouldn't have time to get fat, thank god for that, because so far this week he'd had nothing but pizza for dinner and diner-food in between.

"No, not-" Sam looked just as frustrated as Dean looked calm. "About everything else."

"Yeah, gonna' need a bit more to go on there, man. 'Everything else' seems like a freakin' big topic."

"'Kay, fine." Sam leaned over the table, hands rolled into fists and a serious-as-a-heart-attack face replaced the puppy-eyes that had haunted him the last few weeks. "I think you need to resolve some things before... I mean if something happens, which it won't, because we're getting you out of the deal. But if- Don't you think you want to talk things through for once?"

Dean knew where this was going and he didn't want to, damn if he opened some fucking floodgate and spent his time wallowing in all the shit they've been through for his last days alive. It wouldn't happen, however much Sam wanted.

"No." It was a John-no; final and alpha in its delivery. The even tone of his answer riled his brother up even more. But Dean had delicious fries left on his plate, and he was finishing them throughout Sammy's little tirade.

"Dean, this is serious. How can you not want to heal?"

"'S not broken, man. Just because you're so in touch with your emotions you need a hanky in your pocket for moments of frailty, doesn't mean everyone who doesn't is repressing stuff. "

"Nice, very nice Dean. And also a load of freakin' bullshit. I _know_ some things are still bothering you, I'm right there when you wake up screaming from nightmares. How can you not see past the idea that you have to be some kind of macho stereotype for what - the outside world's sake?"

Fuck him, really. Sam had no clue. Dean had moulded himself into whatever Sam and John needed for the moment, he had been it all before he was even a teenager himself; Parent, brother, hunter, breadwinner. If he hadn't stepped up when no one else did, his brother wouldn't be alive right now. Ten times over. He didn't give a shit about the 'outside world', he had to be strong for Sammy, and for himself. Because if he wasn't, everything crumbled down on them. All Sam had to do growing up was deal, go to school and become better than him. Which he evidently was now.

"Yeah, well, what am I supposed to say? 'Please, teach me how to be a man Sammy, I can't deal with the fact that I was molested or that my daddy was mean to me as a kid. Solve my life problems by telling me it will all be alright if I just cried it out on your shoulder.'"

"Wow. Just... You're a fuckin' douche, Dean."

Dean shrugged, but he hadn't counted on the lump forming in his throat when he said the words out loud. Fuck, they actually hurt when you said them, despite how they spun in your head all day long. Thank god Sam had gotten out of his seat, leaving him alone at the booth to handle his freak out. Breathe. In, out, you're getting air, you're fine. This is why he didn't talk about anything, this is what happened when he did. And Sam didn't understand, he had a fancy doctor telling him he was perfect just the way he was, Jess holding his hand through every damn meeting and more than enough time to let himself work through it. Dean had none of those, especially not now. They still had monster's to hunt, demons to kill. None of his shit was important enough to top that, it just wasn't.  But damn if Sam was ever going to see that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters left, in which coping with things might actually happen.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has taken such long to finish, but I'll make that up to you and post the last two chapters at once. It has been hard to write this, as I've had similiar experiences myself, and yeah, it took some time to make it justice.
> 
> Hope it's still enjoyable.

**Unknown - May 21 2013-late 2014**

Dean had been angry, furious, and let it slip enough to scream at his brother. Seeing the flinch in Sam's face and knowing he was spouting shitty things he was supposed to have let go years ago, still didn't make him stop. He was allowed to be pissed at Sammy. Dean was supposed to be the one in there, reeling from the effects of what the trials did to his body. Dean was the one who was supposed to go in there and pray for forgiveness. God knows, he needed his sins forgiven.

But as many sins as he had committed he couldn't think what would be his greatest. They had gotten so many people killed in their crusade for good, he wasn't even sure they were the good guys anymore. If anything he felt dirtier than that fucking demon scum in there. But Crowley was about to be cleansed. As if he had any right to become someone else when Dean couldn't

Sam had told him he had never felt clean, never worthy of anything in his life, and what did that make Dean? The amount of shit he had put his soul through for the sake of good, for the sake of saving his brother, for the sake of saving a fucking world that didn't do anything but put them straight back into the furnace as soon as they thought they had done their parts.

Maybe he should purify himself as well? Confess to all his sins on this hallowed ground and hope someone out there could see that he was trying? That he had always tried his damn hardest, but the world was a shitty place. You had to do a few nasty things to get somewhere. But there was so damn many. Which had been his worst?

Dean closed his eyes and rushed through memories he never dared touch before.

His first hunt. His first kill and the tears afterwards because he had blood on his hands that never seemed to wash off. His first time taking what he wanted then dumping whatever her name was without so much as goodbye. His first time starving because Sammy was growing and needed more food than before, and how he shoplifted at four different stores to be able to eat themselves full for a few more days until John came back. His first time getting caught red-handed; bread tucked inside his jeans-jacket and sent to that boys-home.

His first time realizing Sam was growing bigger now, needed school-supplies and three decent meals a day. His first time turning tricks outside a sleazy bar he never could return to after that, because Sammy needed soccer-shoes.

His first time Sam told him he was disappointed in him. Throughout his life the failures he'd found himself committing to, that was the only constant he ever felt: He had to be better for Sammy, had to keep him safe at whatever cost it took. It was his job and his charge. And now he was reeling in there, barely able to stand when that part should have been his to play. Sam had always been the better of them, stronger and tougher than Dean's tattered excuse of a soul could ever be and he would pull through it, Dean knew that.

Until Naomi shattered it all.

Sam would die. The demons would all be gone, no longer an issue in the grand scheme of things, but Sam would be dead. The trials had already eaten so much of his body, and this would be the last gulp to consume them both. His brother would be gone in a matter of minutes, and so would Dean's purpose.  
Dean rushed to him, felt like that was all he ever did in his life; Ran to Sam and held on to ride out the storm. Begged for the world to spare him at any cost of his own.  Dean had always done what he had to, and days on end later, he took another decision he never wanted to take. And another one after that. For whatever little he was worth, Dean was going to make sure the best one of them lived to be happy.

 

*

 

"You can't stay."

Dean's brain kicked and screamed behind walls of resolution when he had finally been able to force the words out. He swore to himself Sam was worth this. He had to do this to keep his brother, even if it meant losing the only other thing in his life worth being alive for. God, he couldn't even begin to worry about what could happen to Cas alone out there, if he did he was bound to panic any second.

The angel's face fell into pieces, eyebrows so tussled together  and expressive they looked like they could ask him 'why' on their own. But he couldn't tell. Ezekiel told him this was for the best, Cas was a beacon for the other angels, ones that weren't as benevolent as the ones inhabiting the bunker right now. But somewhere he wanted to be selfish, keep Sammy and keep Cas and forget the outside world and its fucking issues. He wanted to be happy like he had allowed himself to be for what felt like 5 minutes, when Cas walked right into their home and made it his own as well. But no matter what he sacrificed, Dean was never the one supposed to live happily ever after, was he?

"Why?"

No, just go Cas, damnit! Dean couldn't have this discussion. Talking was dangerous because lying to Cas was harder than lying to Sam, his brother didn't see as deep as Cas could. Somehow he knew every in and out of Dean's mind and angel or not, he would soon realize the things he was hiding.

"I can't..." Dean sighed and crouched down by the chair Cas was sitting on, head hung low against his own chest, he could feel the heat of the other man's knee seeping through the bare inch of air between them. It was comfort, just out of reach. "Don't ask me that, Cas. Please."

No come back, no further pressing of the subject. When Dean asked, Cas accepted, and he had never hated the way they functioned before now. He wanted him to kick and scream, push Dean to the edge and make him ask for help with all the fucked up choices he'd had to make in the last few weeks. He wanted to rest his head against the frayed knees of Cas' jeans and pour every part of his shitty life across his lap, wanted to feel strong hands gently coax him into tears and frustration and back into calm. But Cas listened. And without questioning anything, he was gone in what felt like second, leaving Dean throwing books across the library to ease his pain back and exchange it for anger. Anger built his walls, and he needed them back up to deal with Sam. With the rest of their lives. Now wasn't the time for healing wounds, it was time to fight, go to war and hope by god that they were all still alive by the end of it.

*

 

Everything had been resolved by the time they realized they were all three alive. For once no one was left dealing with a crossroads-demon or scanning the bunker's sources for ways to return the others to life. Peace came so fast they never had time to see that next came nothing. From then on out, their lives were their own and they all felt stunned when they couldn't find any more horrors to plough through like their minds were used to. Hell was sealed by no action of their own, and Cas' angel army had fought Metatron on his own battleground and won back their home. A place Cas could no longer go.

They had all been left bereft of closure and the frustration had riled the anger up between them again. Cas was angry about Dean's lies and Dean was furious that Cas never learned to trust him enough to let them plan anything together. Sam found himself angry at the one person who no longer had any say in what happened in the living world, and hadn't had for years.

When his big hands slapped down on the library-table of the bunker, in a quiet moment between screaming matches, and told Dean he had to go finish something, Dean had shrugged and accepted it as another of Sam's personal missions. That he forced Dean and Cas to pack their own bags and follow him while he drove the Impala with purpose to where it had all started for them. At least for Sam and Dean.

Sam's anger seemed to rile up with every mile the black tires rolled, and although they should have stopped, should have rested in motels on the way, Dean knew he couldn't push his brother over this. Sam was striving for something here, and Dean would follow. He always did. So they switched between the three of them, driving a few hours each and sleeping in the back seat when their eyes threatened to fall shut. When Lawrence came into view Dean closed his eyes and had to take deep breaths to calm his nerves. Sam noticed nothing, still with his eyes trained on the road; his mission all he could see. Cas saw though. A warm hand settled on Dean's shoulder and god if it didn't calm everything roiling in his stomach. Before, Dean thought it was only because of his angel-mojo he could settle Dean into calm like this, but Cas was just as human as he was himself now. And no more than a touch of his hand was needed to make it all better. Dean didn't want to be on this road trip, the pressure between them in the car was just like the one at the bunker, only bottled into concentration because they had to get along in the tiny space they shared. Somehow it felt like it would be a turning point though. And Dean feared it all the same.

Sam drove through half-familiar streets, places Dean knew he had ran as a kid, but which Sam knew nothing of. He pitied him, wanted to apologize for everything that had gone wrong in their lives, because Sammy didn't deserve this. He deserved knowing what their mother's voice sounded like when she laughed and how she smiled when she kissed you goodnight and told you how much she loved you. Because dad had been crap at that, had been awful at everything since after Mary died. As if her death switched a button on a man that had been moral and gentle and turned him hard as fucking obsidian and just as blackened.

Dean had tried to be that for Sam. Since his brother was placed in his arms, he had stared at a motherless child in wonder and vowed to make his life a happy one. And here that lead them, to a cemetery all too familiar, and Dean's unwillingness to be here spiked through the roof. He slammed his eyes shut and drove his fingernails into the rough of his jeans.

Cas felt it in an instant, moved his hand from his shoulder to the scruff of his neck, rubbing just beneath the line of his hair. The pressure of warm, gentle fingers  caressing above a vertebrae seemed all he needed to ground his thoughts.

Sam had parked and was out of the car before Dean opened his eyes again, and reluctantly he followed. In the manner he always did, always would do.

They both knew where he was going, every row was familiar and lead to only one place. Mary's grave was something either of them had seen for years, not since Dean had buried his father's ashes alongside their mother, somehow hoping that would put them both at some kind of ease.

Cas must have felt the unspoken tension between the brothers and the place, because he hung back, finding shelter form the harassing sun underneath the shade of a tree. Dean missed his hand on his skin, the first ever touch he had ever craved apart from his brother's. And damn if he wasn't as scared of that as he was of walking up to where Sam had started gesturing to the silence of the grave's headstone.

"I was afraid to come home, you know. Every day I went to school, it was like I could breathe again! And after every day was over, I had to walk back into your world, hide myself and squeeze into the mould you wanted me to fit into. How did you think I would come out a healthy person from that? How couldn't you just see that and let me breathe once in a while? Just because I'm not what you wanted me to be, doesn't mean I'm weak. I found **my** strength in what I was good at, but you pulled it away from me every time! Took everything I loved from me and made me feel guilty for ever loving it! How the fuck am I supposed to be okay with myself now! "

"Sam.." Dean's hand came up to rest on his brother's wide shoulder, with genuine intent to soothe and calm, but all Sam felt from it was enraged.

"No, Dean." Sam's voice lowered from the scream he had been edging himself into. He wavered, but strength shone through in the way he held himself. ". I'm never going to be okay with how you raised us, dad, ever. But you couldn't do it any other way than your own, and I understand that's why we lived like we did. What I can't forgive or understand, is why you couldn't talk to us about the shit that happened to us as kids."

Sam more than saw the icy chill that ran through his brother next to him and how he completely froze when the implication of what he was talking about registered in his brain as well.

"We went through things that would break an adult, for fuck sake! And you ignored every way we acted out and craved attention, just as you ignored every time we got hurt in any other way than physical. When I cried because I thought my panic-attacks were going to kill me, Bobby had to be the one to explain to  me what they were and how to handle them.  And when Dean woke up screaming from dreams of being - "

"Sam. _Don't_." Dean's harsh voice stopped him mid sentence. It wasn't his place, he knew that. Some day Dean would have to go through it, but this was Sam's day. His anger lay with their father and had never stopped growing until now. Screaming, finally being allowed  to put to words what he always was afraid of saying; he punched the words out of himself, made them final and the end of the road.

His own shaking hand brushed wispy hair behind his ear, tongue shakily licked lips in a frustrated gesture he never seemed able to get rid of.

 "You were never there. That's why I can't forgive. I can never be alright with you."

Silence, besides the rustling of trees and Sam's laboured breaths. Everything bottled up inside for years, streaming out in words he knew he could never have told John had he been alive. But this wasn't for John to hear, this was for himself. And for Dean. They needed to talk; rip out everything they had put behind walls inside themselves and let all the trapped up bile and horror spill out into the world where they could spread them out into manageable pieces and look at them as a whole for the first time. They needed to talk about everything shitty and then everything good so their mental wounds healed without infections. If they didn't, Sam would keep on pulling away from his brother, end up alone and to the mercy of his anger. And Dean would keep drinking, hunting without fear of dying, following his father's feet because everything else was bashed out him.

"You never saw that you dug your own grave with me, dad. You left us on our own and then you told Dean to raise me. You were never my father;  Dean was as close as I got to a parent. And then you blamed him for what a shitty man I thought you were. But you were just bad compared to him. He is everything you couldn't be, so you put him down - moulded him even harder but was never pleased - because I was the one you were mad at."

Sam didn't look at his brother, knew this was too much for him to handle, and he could probably think of nothing he would rather do than to leave here and drink this day away until it was all a blur of regrets. He wouldn't let him though, not this time and not from now on.

"The only good you taught me, is that family is all you got." The warm hand on his shoulder squeezed so hard he was glad he'd worn his leather jacket, or Dean's hand would have made its own brand on his skin. Just like the one his brother carried himself.

Sam knew Cas stood leaned against a tree, three rows of graves down, making his own mark on the moment, without intruding enough to listen to their private words. Dean and Cas. They were all he had now, but he wasn't sorry. They could re-build their lives the way they wanted now. Maybe not perfectly, and they would surely fall and bruise themselves again. Sooner than later probably, but they could make it out. For once without the pressure of what anyone else wanted.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**The men of letters bunker - Lebanon, Kansas -2014**

 

"Cas, don't..."

It wasn't a loud protest, barely mouthed, but Dean was used to Cas listening intently to every word out of his mouth. But hands kept right on their path up his back under the t-shirt, kneading muscles beneath battle-hardened fingertips. It would have felt nice any other time, but it was one of _those_ days. Where everything bad he had ever lived through kept rushing past in his mind, no matter how hard he tried to push them back where they belonged. His anxiety had run high since he woke up, and Sam had already recognized his mood at breakfast to know he should stay clear for the day, but Dean tried harder with Cas; really wanting their moments together to be as good as they could be. A particularly rough probe of finger against a vertebra made it all explode.

"GET OFF ME!"

Cas went tumbling back from the force of the shove against his chest. He eyed Dean in confusion, not sure what he had done wrong. Their relationship, whatever it was, was new and fragile, and neither of them had dared push it into serious territory. This could either break it all down or give it that last nudge into something deeper. Dean didn't know if he could handle either of them happening. He just knew having  Cas close usually made everything better. At least more tolerable, and perhaps made life a bit more worthwhile. But today his body said no.

The former angel didn't seem offended though, more worried by the looks of his face; Patent Cas frown developing as his head tilted like it usually did.

"What is wrong Dean?"

Dean let his shoulders fall and shrugged. He had no clue anymore. They should be happy, or at least enjoy the quiet and calm they had been given now, but all the purposeless lounging around opened his mind up to things he had stashed away long ago, meaning to go through them when he had the strength. Evidently he still didn't have it.

Dropping down on the leather sofa they had pulled into the library for lounging around after dinner, his head fell into his open hands, burrowing his face in to not have to look at anything that could trigger more memories to rear their ugly heads. Cas stood still behind him, giving him enough space to calm down.

"Things just catch up to you sometimes, you know?"

Still no movement, but Cas answered him. "I don't think I understand what you mean."

Dean sighed and flexed his jaw. His head was trying to gather his memories into some kind of chronological order, but just brushing past some of them made him shake enough to rattle the empty beer-bottles on the table. Was he even thinking about telling him this? The things he had hidden from everyone so as not to be a burden. Did he want Cas to burden himself with this? Maybe he was strong enough to handle it.

 A small halt in his rushing thoughts because the answer was so ridiculously easy; Of course he was. Dean had seen him fall apart and grow back stronger far too many times these last few years, to even try and doubt the man's abilities. He was damaged by it, even more so now, but at least he wouldn't blame himself as Sam would have done, if he'd told him everything. Dad had blamed Dean for it, he knew that, and that was okay; because it had been his own fault. He had let up on his father's suffocating control, just for a few minutes,  wanting to breathe clear open air. And it got him hurt. But somewhere down the line, parts of him had stopped believing he had deserved it.

"Are you really gonna make me tell you about it? Can't you just step into my head and spare me reliving it again?" It was meant as a joke, and he accentuated it with a mirthless chuckle.

At that, Cas moved to sit next to him on the couch. A good foot away, giving him the choice to move closer if he wanted too. He appreciated the gesture, but he couldn't move, not yet.

"I would if I could, Dean." It sounded so terribly full of regret, he had to look back up. Cas' eyes were stubbornly fixed on him, a small smile he knew wasn't from amusement but from yearn-fully wishing he could read his mind as he could before. But he was powerless, just as left to his emotions and traumas as Dean was. Perhaps that was where they had to start this; on a common ground.

Dean smiled back weakly. "I know."

It wasn't easy, telling the story. It hurt a lot more than he thought it ever would. He had never completely forgotten about it. The memories kept him awake more than one night, and turned him off sex and relationships a good amount of times, but he thought he had let himself go through it enough times in his head that it would suffice as having 'worked it through'. But now, saying _his_ name and detailing every painful and embarrassing moment was like telling a story that was really his. And it fucking hurt as much this time as when he had slid down on the tile of that shabby bathroom and bawled his eyes out at the pain.

Cas listened intently, as he did every time he spoke. Giving nods of appreciation when Dean managed a few more words despite looking like he wanted to take it all back and pretend they'd never had this conversation. Many of his sentences made no sense, and were littered with curses and swallowed sobs, but he ploughed through it. Anger flared up every so often, questioning how someone could have done that to him at 12 years old, when he wanted nothing in the world but to make it through the days to get a pat on the shoulder by his father and a smile from his little brother. Demons, angels and monsters had agendas; reasons for why they victimized others. But using a child for nothing other than... that. It wasn't fair that people who were able to do that were free to walk around, claiming more innocence whenever they wanted.

"It's why I can't... with you yet." Dean gestured with his hands between him and Cas, and when the confusion spelled obvious on the other man's face again, he made a crude gesture of the act, disgusting himself by just motioning it.

"I had bruises from his fingers on me for weeks. Every day I had to see them, on my hips and back. And dad.."  Dean paused and kept another well-up of tears from going anywhere by squaring his jaw and flexing the muscles of his neck a few times.

"I don't think he knew what to do. I think he wanted to talk about it, make it all right, but days went by and we just never did. Bobby tried to make me talk about it the same day, but I couldn't right there, it was all too close, you know? A few days after, when I had puzzled together all the pieces, I had to lock myself in the bathroom in a panic every time I saw my own skin. And dad just ignored it, willed it to go away with time, I guess."

Cas looked broken, as if he could physically feel the pain Dean had been in back then. And the pain it still brought him now. He probably knew hurt like this, as many years as he had existed, and as many times he had screwed up despite every intention to be good. Just like Dean had wanted to be good for his family.

"And now, I just can't. With women it's been different, not that much of a problem. As the guy I'm supposed to be in control, take the lead, right. No one has to touch me anywhere close to rough enough to trigger a flashback. But no matter how much I need you some days, your hands just..." Shaking hands wiped tears off his face, and scratched at the beard forming on his chin to hide the gesture.

"I'm sorry, Dean. That is a terrible thing to have happen to you. I wish I could..." Cas took a deep breath between words, not sure what he meant to offer, if there was even anything he could have done, had he been at his full powers. All he had now was himself. Human words and comfort, and he hoped it was enough.  "Anything you need from me, I'll give it to you."

Dean let a hand fall from his face and come to rest between them on the sofa, palm up as if asking for something. Cas slowly reached out with his own, making sure he gave Dean enough time to pull back if he needed to. Carefully he slotted his hand to fit in with Dean's, and let a sigh of relief escape him when he felt fingers grasping on tightly.

"I know, Cas"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for every kudos I've gotten on this, as well as every comment. They mean the world to me, and I never would keep writing if it wasn't for you all. You are love.


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